Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
“But the weird thing is—”
“All of this is already very weird!”
“—the weird thing is not that they’re all super stans. You know, superfans? Borderline stalkers. Or total fucking weirdos. But that they’re her stans, not Fin’s.”
“Whose fans? Stans. Who do you mean?”
“Guess,” Ronny demands.
“Charlotte Bancroft.” My heart sinks to my boots as I say her name.
“Yep. Her and her minions are to blame for your business almost going tits up.”
“But why? I’ve never even met her.”
“You have. You just don’t remember.”
Chapter 33
Fin
When I’m drinking scotch in my office on a weekday afternoon, you know things are bad.
I turn to the rap of a knuckle on my door, and Josie’s face appears around the lump of wood. She looks confused.
“What is it?”
“Your wife is apparently in reception.”
“Is she?” My heart beats twice in quick succession, as though I’ve done something wrong. It’s not that I’ve forgotten, but, fuck, he worked quick.
“I didn’t even know you had one of those. A wife.”
“That’s what happens when you take a vacation.” Struggling to keep my outward appearance calm, I turn back to the window. “You miss all the tea.”
“I’ll ask them to send her up, shall I?”
“I think that would be best.” I glance back at her, then my eyes slide over my desk. “Though maybe we should strip the room of sharp implements.”
“Do you really mean that?”
I chuckle and give my head a shake, but she comes into the room anyway.
“That’s not even yours,” she says, swiping an antique silver letter opener from my desk.
“I was just waiting to see how long before Oliver noticed.”
“You and your pranking,” she mutters, making for the door again.
“Josie?”
She turns on the threshold.
“How about you make yourself scarce when Mrs. DeWitt gets here?”
“You’re sure?”
“You wouldn’t want to hear a grown man cry, would you?”
“Maybe if it’s you,” she says, swinging away. “I can see why someone would want to stab you. Sometimes. But try not to allow it until after payday.”
“You got it.”
My gut twists as she leaves. No going back. But will we be going forward? Together? I roll my shoulders, trying to ease out the tension. Fat chance on that front. Am I an idiot for thinking she might go for this?
Or not go for it, more like. Please.
Fuck. I can’t go on like this. I need her. I need to show her how much I . . . esteem? Crave? Love her? How I can’t imagine life without her.
I’ve always been impulsive, but I pray I’m doing the right thing.
I just want to give her everything. I want that everything to include me. I want to be responsible for her smiles, to always be there to dry her tears too.
The way I feel about her . . . there are no words. Love is kind of primal. A part of humanity that’s as old as time itself. At first, I desired Mila. I found her curves desirable, her wit and her sharp tongue irresistible—I wanted to suffer its lash.
But the desired, the person, is just an ideal. The perfect person in your mind but not yet real. Then things change, and for me, they’ve changed fast.
I turn as the door creaks open, then bangs from the opposite wall, held only from bouncing back by my wife’s flat palm.
My wife. She is incandescent.
And that’s not really a compliment—more an observation.
“Josie, I see you’ve met Mila.”
My assistant’s frown appears from behind my much shorter wife.
“I’ll just leave you both to it,” she says, backing away.
“It was nice to meet you,” Mila says, turning her head briefly, ever the professional people pleaser. The only person she doesn’t want to please is me. “I’m sorry it wasn’t under better circumstances.”
It’s then I realize she’s holding the Jeff Koons balloon dog from the kitchen under her arm. She steps inside, and the door slams. I find myself ducking as twenty grand’s worth of whimsy crashes against the original window shutters.
“You bastard!” Her voice is low and vehement. “You careless shithead!” she shouts her next accusation.
“Careless? Me?” I glance from her to the dent in the shutter.
“Yes, okay. I was aiming for your head!”
“There’s always next shot.” But careless? I thought she would’ve gone with calculated. Me? I’d go with desperate. “What are you doing here, Mila?”
“You know,” she hisses.
“Roza is the one with the sight. The rest of us have to wait for explanations.”
The look she sends me. It’s downright murderous. I wonder if I’ll be able to persuade her to fuck me when she finally gets her hands around my neck. What a way to go. I’d enjoy the ride to the very end.
My hand trembles as I set my glass on my desk, but not because I’m afraid of anything but losing her. All the same, maybe I should put the glass in my drawer.
“You are careless,” she says, swiping up a vase.